Evanescent Hope
by GachanDesu
Summary: Because she is a caged bird, without hopes of attaining freedom. But she is allowed to hope… She is allowed to dream… right? Rated T for suggested themes.


**Evanescent Hope**

A _Fairy Tail _one-shot

by Gachan

* * *

She is alone.

She has no friends, no happiness, _nothing at all_. Her mama had died years ago, and with the departure of the lady went the exuberance of the entire mansion. Servants would often busy themselves with the cleaning and other house chores, never once stopping to pay attention to the young mistress; never once stopping to shower her with the much-needed love that she long yearns for. Often, they would fret and fuss over her, but only because they are paid to do so... only because it is their job... only because _she is the young mistress._

But what hurt her most is _his_ neglect. With the demise of his wife, her father locked his love for his daughter deep within. He put up a stoic exterior, refusing to show even a tad bit of emotion to _anyone_—not even her. The man started drilling the idea that they were royalty, and should not mix with any peasants out in the street into her little mind. And as she grows older, he starts to busy her day with lessons lined up back-to-back and refuses to let her meet people, let alone leave the huge mansion.

She _forces_ herself not to care though, for she knows that running from this life would lead to _nowhere_. And even though she dreams and wishes and _hopes_, she knows she isn't brave enough to run, run, run… escape from this life.

And each day, she is reminded that she is royalty. Each day, she attends balls and gatherings. But it is not the same: such grandiose balls do not give her the freedom that she wants—no, _needs_! She knows this little hope of hers is only a fleeting dream, but she is allowed to dream, right?

However, as the years pass, she finds herself falling deeper into the abyss of confinement that she is cursed with. She is forced to attend balls that have more men, and fewer women. Soon enough, under her father's dictate, she frequents only the balls where there is no one but men. And she knows what he is planning, yet she remains reserved. She doesn't question him, can't question him. It is strange why she doesn't stand up for herself, but she knows that there is no hope of changing anything. If this is her life, her destiny... if this is what her father wishes for, then she will carry it out, for she is his marionette, and he is her puppeteer—her _manipulator_.

And then, when she is seventeen, she is called to her father's study.

_"You are to be married off to the son of the Curteis family."_

She knows better than to disrespect her father's orders, because _there is nothing else she can do_, even if she wishes to run; to escape from this miserable life. And it doesn't matter even if she hopes that someday, _someday_, she will be free from this hell. Because it is futile: she hasn't got the courage to run—leave and never come back.

So on the day of the marriage, she stands on the second floor of the Curteis's elegant mansion that overlooks the grand hall, hand in hand with her husband. She watches as her father, together with her father-in-law, raise his glass of wine. The gathered recipients applaud, and the two older men walk down the stairs to entertain the guests after downing the wine. It is of no surprise that there is not even a proper wedding ceremony. But it's not within her ability to even _care_, because it's not her that is in control of her life—it's _him._

When night comes rolling round, she and her husband leave to go to their own manor, located somewhere deep within the forests. She lets herself be led into the carriage together with her husband, and watches out the tiny window as her father's figure diminishes in the distant horizon. She barely registers the feeling of her husband's hand on her thigh, slowly moving up and down, as if to caress her. It would be a loving gesture, if it is not for the lecherous smirk ever present on his repulsive face.

And she knows; the girl is well aware that her father married her off to this… this _imbecile _simply for the benefit of his business, yet she bears no feelings towards the man. No hatred, no anger, no sadness...

_Why… why is this so?_

Maybe it's because she's forgotten to feel ever since so many years ago. Maybe it's because she's alone, with no one to care for her, no one to lead her down the right path. Maybe it's because she's _so damn scared_... She doesn't want to _think_, doesn't want to _feel_. But on the nights where he would touch her and force himself onto her, she would close her eyes and let go of her caged emotions, hot tears running down her porcelain cheeks.

_Because this is her fate..._

And you can't change fate. It is the inevitable, it is bound to happen—it _must _happen.

And so, day by day, the light in her honey brown eyes fades, ceasing to exist. She watches by the sidelines as her already-brittle soul crumbles to dust. Yet, he doesn't even realize, doesn't even _care_. Why _would_ he? She is but a mere tool to him; a personal toy for his own pleasure. He does whatever he wants with her: beat her, chain her, force himself on her. And she can't do _anything_, for life is cruel. She is a mere doll, a puppet. And he is the manipulator. So she quietly accepts it. She meekly complies with his beck and calls, never daring to defy him. Never struggling, even when he pins her down, even when he gropes her in places that make her feel uncomfortable, even when he lines himself up against her and continuously thrusts into her tired body, _grinding, grinding, grinding_... She doesn't resist, for she _has_ to submit to him—because_ this is what she has been taught to do._

She has no choice but to let him do as he please, no choice but to let him _ruin _her. And she doesn't mind it when he roughly grabs her, running his tongue along her pale, pale skin; she doesn't mind it when he binds her to the bed, and forces her legs open, pounding into her day after day, night after night.

_But she does_.

.

.

.

So on that unorthodox day, the daring side of her—the side carefully locked up—bares itself, and he finds her struggling, thrashing around wildly as he tries to pin her down. She bites his arms, and screams and wails, because_ no, she doesn't want this! This isn't how she wants her life to be, goddamnit! _But he isn't having this, because she is _his, _and she can do_ nothing _but listen to him. So he beats her up, because _that bitch had dared to defy him!_

She cries out in pain as she blocks out the strings of profanities that spew from his foul mouth, cowering behind sickeningly bony arms, desperately trying to protect herself from his brutal kicks and assaults. The girl finds herself bruised and bloodied and crumpled on the cold floors of the basement cells, staring up at the cold man's eyes. She whimpers, crying to herself. It's been years since she last went against him, and she is briefly remorseful, as her body thrums in pain. But _anything _is better than having him force himself on her, isn't it? And one single thought runs through her fragile mind, while she watches with bleary eyes as he turns away.

_Why… Why did I not run? Why did I not follow Mama's footsteps and become a mage?_

But she knows why, and it scares her _so much_ that she is so _weak_.

And as the months drift past, she would find herself looking out of the windows of the secluded mansion, staring into the faraway horizon. She would think of how life would be, if she had just _run away_, _away, away… escape from this life._

She dreams of freedom, dreams of a pink-haired man with a scaly scarf and a blue cat—she doesn't even know him, but there is something about the man that warms her heart. Maybe it's the way he smiles that carefree smile, or maybe it's because he treats her as _nakama_, as a precious _friend, _and not some tool. And in these dreams, she would see people—a red-headed girl, a shirtless teen, a petite blue-haired child, and many others—smiling at her kindly, accepting her with all their hearts. And although all of their faces are blurred, she can feel the warmth emanating from them, as she pictures herself sitting with them, laughing heartily, without a care in the world, like how it is supposed to be. But she knows such things are not possible. She will never have _friends;_ not now, not ever, for she is stuck here, in this cold, _cold _prison.

But she lets herself hope.

Even if it is fleeting, even if it is evanescent… it is nice to know that maybe, _just maybe_, she would be accepted.

Yet, she knows that will never happen. It is all in her mind.

And she, Lucy Heartfilia, knows...

She is alone.

* * *

**Uh, so... Hi? Firstly, I would like to apologize for my (extremely) long leave of absence. School has tortured me in many ways. I'm actually preparing for my graduating year next year, so my schedule is a little too hectic for my liking. But, I am on break now, so hopefully I'll get 'round to writing more stories!**

**Also, I have decided to try out a different style of writing, so do tell me if you find it weird! Oh, and fret not my dearies; I haven't forgotten about my other fanfics. I am currently planning another one-shot, and also hope to update _Searching for Home_ sometime soon :D Until then!**

**Edits: I read this once through, and have fixed the problems with the italics and spacing, and also added in a little stuff. But it's negligible, so it's okay if you don't read this again. Do point out any other mistakes, and I'll fix them! :)**


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